


Heroes Get Remembered...

by thegracearoundyourneck



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Death, F/M, Future Fic, Heaven, Hell, Major Character Undeath, Minor Character Death, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-08-02 20:17:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16312034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegracearoundyourneck/pseuds/thegracearoundyourneck
Summary: Over fifty years have passed since the Winchesters walked the Earth. In the time since their absence, a war has been raged, their lives have become stories, and the only remaining members of Team Free Will are buried beneath lies. With Heaven decimated, Hell biding its time, and the equivalent of an atom bomb living inside one lone angel of the lord, there's a new threat on the rise. It might just be time for death to take a holiday...again.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Subject to change. Title definitely subject to change (I hate naming things). Typos will be changed. 
> 
> Just going to warn you ahead of time that there will probably be some typos or a slip of tense as I changed my mind halfway through this first part, then proceeded to go back and try and adjust everything. (I tried my best to locate them all, I promise.) 
> 
> I haven't written anything in like...forever, but started on this a little while ago and it'll probably take some time to get each chapter out, but I'll try and keep the time between chapters to a minimum once a month. It may be faster than that, but I'll try not to go over it. 
> 
> Mainly doing this as a way of drawing myself out of my own head. 
> 
> Oh and don't get your hopes up for future pairings, writing this as something hopefully everyone in this lovely family of ours will enjoy as a little pastime reading.

Bars are hard. The long lines, pregamers bellowing, and general lack of space for some of them would put any well to do, laid back drinker at unease. It can be difficult to pick one that won't be busy on any given evening of the week. Especially in a small town mainly comprised of world weary alcoholics looking for brief reprieve from the daily drawl. The bars are their church, their salvation, their right. Its generally off-putting when the crowds take that from them. 

For the even more increasingly jaded traveller, shuffling in to a loud, puke ridden cesspool was even less than ideal. Luckily tonight the torrential storm of drunks that seemed to plague the bars as of late was at a minimum, or located elsewhere for the time being. Not so good for business for the historic Ear Inn, but for the quiet alcoholics, it is the closest thing to Heaven. 

"The closest we've been to Heaven in a long time, at least." A nearly inaudible whisper slips through the teeth and lips of the only patron sitting at the bar. That's not to say the room was entirely empty, there are probably a good twenty others situated around the tables spread throughout. Everything within a ten foot radius of the hunched over patron, however, remains vacant. The bartender is the only exception, for the glaringly obvious reason that someone has to tend it, but even he remains in the corner furthest away.

“They’re wary.” The smooth voice slips between dry lips, tongue flicking out to wet them with the finish of the sentence. The cold brew sitting on the counter before him remains largely untouched, but his fingers swirl through the condensation gathering on the outside of the glass, tracing patterns without meaning. 

“Is that anything new?” Husky words vibrate out from between slightly clenched teeth. The same fingers tracing new patterns across the glass, before finally slipping around it to bring the glass to chapped lips, taking a slow swig of the malty substance. It does nothing for the man of course, but the repetition of taking a sip every five minutes is soothing. The bartender in the corner flicks his gaze briefly over to him when he moves each time, as if expecting him to suddenly launch himself across the bar and throttle him to death. 

The gruff patron supposes such leeriness is well deserved with the visual state of his being. His dark hair is wild atop his head, wind blown and dirty. There are smatterings of a dry, dark red substance across the left side of his worn, black leather jacket that would make anyone who dares look his direction cast a nervous expression. His usual five o'clock shadow is starting to get a little longer than he likes, making him more unkempt than he normally was. Yet, his eyes are probably doing most of the job for him. 

The blues nestled beneath thick dark lashes, are icy cold and venomous. They're daggers warning everyone to stay away, even when he doesn't mean them to be. It's the reality of his being. Everything is cold, everything is distant and he is okay with that. They both are. Which brings up another reason as to why he's sitting here alone. They think he's crazy.

After all, he is talking to himself. At least that is the outward appearance of it. It's not often they speak to one another aloud, just when they can't stand their own voices buzzing in their head. The glass is raised to his lips once again, letting the liquor slide back down his throat, coating his insides with brief warmth before the effect of it is simply washed away.

The bells neatly strapped to the front door handle jingle with the arrival of a new patron. Steel-toed boots clunk their way across the floor, heading straight towards the seated man. A meaty hand shoots out and deposits a set of keys on to the counter top. 

The ice cold eyes stay locked on to the slowly evaporating condensation on the glass before the man.

"It's fixed. Try not to destroy it again." The new patron's voice grumbles out loud, unaware of the general 'stay the fuck away' aura permeating the air around him, he has his own that adds to the intensity. The boots turn, as the man mumbles something about getting the other driving classes, and carry their owner back out of the bar, the door slamming with a loud cacophony of bells. With his exit, one tanned hand moves just slightly and grips hold of the keys, pulling them front and center in his field of his vision.

"If only he knew..." The velvety voice whispers. There is a small huff that follows it and then the man is standing, his free hand reaches in to the back pocket of dark wash, slim fit jeans, rolled at the end overtop worn, black, steel-toed boots, and pulls out a thin, deteriorating, leather wallet, produces a forty which he drops down on to the bar, and then turns to leave. 

“Leaving so soon Jimmy?” The haggard looking man, Jimmy, froze. Automatically his back is straightening, shoulders setting in preparation for a fight. There’s an ethereal tug at his insides, an automatic response which he calmly squashes. No need to pull on that chain just yet. 

Jimmy's head turns just enough that one cold eye takes in the only other being standing up in the room. 

The man is in the corner, leaning inwards across the bar towards the barkeep as the employee busily wipes down glasses. One pale hand reaches out and pushes one of the glasses set on the counter slowly across it towards the edge. Frantically, the black clad bartender, Donovan his name tag reads, reaches across and snatches it before it can careen over the edge. His brown eyes wide as he looks around the room, trying to see if anyone is staring curiously at his hurried movement. 

Outright fear isn't a reaction one would normally have, maybe a firm instruction towards the customer not to break the glassware with threat of purchasing what you break or swift boot out the door, not the spastic snatching of glassware off the counter and hasty placement of said wares inside a cupboard underneath whilst looking about the room crazy eyed. Why should Donovan react calmly though? The glass did just move on it's own, at least in his eyes it did.

The man isn't there. Not physically at least. Not to the hardworking employee who has clearly experienced something like this before and knows to quickly hide the breakables nor the people sipping at their drinks around the room. Jimmy is the only one who can lay eyes on the 1890's garb clad patron. The sailor who glides through the bar at random, wreaking occasional havoc for his own delight. The man who was struck down by a car long before his time. The ghost The Ear Inn regulars dubbed "Mickey."

There's a smirk playing in the corner of the spirit's mouth as he watches the barkeep with pale grey eyes, enjoying the panic he's wrought on the poor man, before his eyes flicker back to Jimmy's. And suddenly he's right there, standing right behind the rough man who is starting to garner some even more unwanted attention as he just stands in the middle of the bar, looking over his shoulder. 

"Think we need to have a chat old friend. There's some whisperin' going on in the Vale." The air turns frigid, a few of the customers within range have goosebumps rising up on their arms and they shift uncomfortably in their seats.

“Pass.” Jimmy turns his head back from over his shoulder, shifting his stance and trying to make his body language look a bit softer as he moves towards the front door. 

"You just gonna leave?" The spirit calls out to him, the lights overhead begin to flicker as Mickey shouts. 

"He's getting worse." Jimmy mutters as he reaches for the door, fingers clenching down on the keys in the closed fist of his left hand. 

_So?_ The response is internal, a sense of resignation washes through his veins. That swell of energy that permeated his being briefly before is now fully extinguished, retreating far back within him. Ice water eyes flick briefly back over their owner's leather clad shoulder, giving the apparition one last glance before the bells jingle, announcing his departure. 

Outside on the street, the air is crisp. It washes over the town from the not too distant shoreline. Fall is drawing in closer with each passing day; summer is taking its last bow before it moves off, pulling the crowds with it. The evidence is slowly consuming the town. 

Storefronts are swapping out their cheery faced sun decor for fall leaves dancing across their windows in the form of cheap cling ons reused one too many times. Their corners droop away from the glass where they've been pulled away and stretched during removal. Summer merchandise is slowly being packed in to boxes or thrust out the door at half prices in an effort to make that last ditch money grab from tourists. Jackets, sweaters, hoodies, and various other forms of long sleeves are creeping out to take their short sleeved counterparts place. No doubt the inhabitants of the town are starting to dig their own winter wear out of storage and shove their summer essentials back in their place. 

There are banners being strung between buildings, tied to poles and old wrought iron balconies by hired hands, advertising the next fall celebration a month from now. Everything is designed to try and keep the busy street, well, busy. These things work too, they pull the locals out from hiding even as the temperatures begin to dip and it's all just fascinating. Fascinating because none of it matters anymore. 

At least, not to Jimmy. Not to the man who used to take part in every single one of those happenings with such joy. The guy who used to make his rounds to all his local stores, asking them if they needed help on the weekends, towing his daughter along to instill in her the importance of helping others.

_“But why? It’s the weekend?” Claire would complain when she was little. “I wanna go play!” Her little arms crossed over her chest while she stamped the ground with her feet. It was adorable._

_“Because Claire," Jimmy kneels down to be eye level, stifling back a snicker at the full on pouting face she's wearing, "one day you might need help too and all these people will be there for you." His hand sweeps around the busy town street. He can see the brief glance around she tries so hard to hide, little arms firmly crossed across her chest as she does. Briefly he recalls when his little girl was born._

_Kicking and screaming, Claire already had that little lower lip pout firmly in place on her face and it never quite went away. His little blue eyed baby. Amelia had let out soft chuckles as he went in to detail the depths of her little pout while nurses gently cleaned their newborn off, glancing back at his worn beauty lying on the bed as he did. He was so proud of how far they'd come._

_With a small shake of his head, he reached out and pulled her closer, until their foreheads rested against each other. "They’ll remember how much you helped them and they will help you in return. ‘Do unto those as you would have them do unto you.’ Besides, doesn’t it make you feel good seeing their happy faces?” Jimmy squeezed her hand as her arms finally broke free from their iron cross across her chest and the happy little giggle that bubbled out of her in admission warmed his heart ten fold._

A soft sigh escapes his lips at the memory. Jimmy had always been the one up on ladders all day helping string lights for the coming holidays and dropping in to the bakery down the street to pick up enough treats to give at least two to each shop owner. Then he’d go home and begin again the next day, until there was literally nothing left to do. Even then he would have come up with something. If not to just selfishly steal more time alone with his daughter. He loved his wife of course, but she got to see Claire all the time while he was at work, so those days were precious. He hoarded them. 

Jimmy could remember building up the rough callouses on his hands from the easy labour, which he clenches both in to tighter fists now just thinking about. When he garnered the extra muscle tone, outside of his usual exercise regime, just going up and down ladders all day helping carry boxes for the little old ladies who ran most of the small shops, Amelia had been there to compliment just how proud she was of him with a side of appreciation for his body. 

Now, it just seems pointless. Amelia is gone, she's at peace. Claire is safe. Nothing else matters. There are much worse things are out there that need to be dealt with, but that has always been true. It is the only purpose that keeps his boot clad feet moving towards the ancient vehicle parked against the curb. 

It's slick, black paint reflects the red neon glow of the Ear Inn's sign and the bulb string lighting running down the length of the small town's main street. The sheet metal is an eclectic patchwork mix of old and new with hardly any original left, the paintwork leaves something to be desired, and the interior is worn and in desperate need of repair, but it, _she_ , still draws a small crowd. 

"This thing is mint." Jimmy picks up as he pushes through the group of men and women circling the ancient machine.

"They just don't make cars like this anymore." The worn vocal chords of an elderly gentlemen huff out to the younger man, no doubt his grandchild, next to him. Jimmy finds himself giving the old man a moment to discuss the vehicle with his grandson. A little image of an elderly version of himself with a blonde haired, blue eyed grandson standing beside him, looking up at him with the same reverence pops in to the forefront of his mind. The corners of his mouth quirk slightly, the barest hints of a smile he'd forgotten he owns. 

After a few moments, Jimmy slides past them and makes his way around the front of the car, sliding the key in to the door lock and popping it open. 

He can feel the eyes all on him, some judging and some lustful. A brief glance upwards and he finds a few of the girl's eyes roaming over him as he turns his body, putting one foot in before sliding down in to the seat. The corners of his mouth remain quirked in a half smirk, as he puts the key in the ignition, the silver bullet keychain swinging, then pumps the gas pedal once and turns the key, the car roars to life. She announces her presence to the block as she rumbles, the engine happily purring as it idles. 

The old man and his son have grins plastered on their faces as the small group makes their way out of the path of the vehicle. Jimmy plants his foot on the worn brake pedal and pulls the gear shift towards him, then glides it down in to drive. Deft fingers pull the knob for the headlights toward him until it stops and all the exterior lights come to life. Jimmy kicks the switch on the floor with his left foot for the high beams, then eases his right foot off the brake as he turns the wheel towards the main road. 

_She sounds healthy._ The internal voice grumbles out before going silent once again, leaving Jimmy to his thoughts. The smile does make its way fully across his face in just the briefest of flashes. The memory of this very vehicle racing down the road with him clinging to his phone in the backseat some fifty nine years ago come rushing to the forefront of his mind. She sounds the same, if not better and he can't help but relish in it. He can only imagine what the one lurking inside him feels every time he turns the key.

*** 

Twelve hours in to driving, Jimmy has made more stops for gas than he cares to remember and his mental health has completely flown out the window. The winding roads and hum of the engine seem to put him in a trance every time, which, normally, helps him take his mind off of things. This trip, it seems to have had the opposite effect.

One might say he becomes road blind, but that isn’t quite it. He’s fully aware of everything happening to him. Visions of different scenery ahead of him danced across his field of view, flashes of time gone by accompanied by mindless drabble that, at one point in time or another, had been the roots of a very real conversation. Memories that weren’t fully his completely enveloped him in such a way that he had even started mumbling out answers in response to ghostly questions. 

_"Are you serious?" The musty smell permeated the Impala's interior, filling his sense of smell. The soothing sound of her engine cooling as she sat idle against the curb filtered in to his ears._

"These make me very happy." _The digusted expression on the other occupant's face from the sudden appearance of his friend, and as he eyed what seemed like the millionth bag of White Castle in said friend's grasp._

_"Are you...drunk?" A rundown motel room in Blue Earth, Minnesota where the green textured wallpaper and contrasting red leather couch had definitely seen better days._

_"No!" A pause._ "Yes." 

_"What the hell happened to you?"_

_"I found a liquor store." He put his weight against the room divider, eyes rose lazily to take in the person who'd interrupted his rage induced bender. The dividing wall groaned just slightly as he let his weight lean in to it just a little more, the intensity of his true being slowly becoming too much._

_"And?"_

"And I drank it!" _Someone's hands rose in mock self defense._

_"It's overwhelming. It's disgusting. I miss you PB & J." A longing sigh escaped his mouth, his grasp relinquishing the beloved food back to the plates permanent grip._

_"I'm not a hero, but sometimes doing the right thing requires sacrifices." The scenery was getting fuzzy._

_"He's an angel. An angel. Y'know capital 'A,' wings, harp-"_

_"No, I don't have a harp."_

_"This is Castiel."_

_"Don't make my last moments be spent watching you die." Blood and the stench of decay._ "You need to keep fighting..." __

_"We are fighting. We're fighting for-"_  


"ENOUGH!" Jimmy shakes his head as if it'll rattle the voices loose. To make matters worse, his own personal memories are bubbling at the surface more steadily with the holidays quickly approaching. Jimmy knows he tried to play it off like he didn't care back there in New York, but now its really eating at him. He wants to be near his daughter, he wants to go home. So, finally at his wits end, he yanks the wheel to the right, narrowly skirting on to the exit ramp at the last moment and turns in to the first gas station entrance to cross his path. His head is pounding.

_"Heaven, Hell? None of that matters, the only thing that's important to me is you and Claire."_

Jimmy is out of the car before he can even blink. The door slams with a resounding thud closely followed by the barely remembered click of the key sliding in to the lock and twisting. Taking deep breaths, he turns his back to the car and leans back against it for a moment, closing his eyes, tilting his head back towards the sky, calming himself down before he flies in to the gas station like some out of control whack job. 

_Jimmy-_

"Would it kill you to keep your mind to yourself sometimes?" He snaps loudly, barely opening his eyes to glance around at a few of the people at the pumps closest to him. They look away from the seemingly mad man's little outburst and hurriedly finish pumping their gas. Jimmy doesn't care though, the past few hours the memories clouding his mind had grated on him. There's a pulse of brief agitation that flickers through him from the other presence. "Better yet, why don't I hand over the reigns for a little while since you clearly need to get some shit off your chest, Castiel." 

_Quiet!_ The shout pounds behind his forehead, briefly making him groan and pitch forward away from the car a little before he shakes it off. His hands clench as he slouches back against it.

"No! You can't play chicken with your emotions forever! You're above this internal moping and I'm tired. Now, take the fuck over and go blow off some steam or do whatever it is you do when I'm wiped." Jimmy turns and starts walking towards the restrooms, wanting to get away from all of the now curious people parked at the pumps around him. One looks like she's about to phone the police about the crazy man yelling to himself at the gas station, but she slips in to her car and drives away instead.

As he walks in to the bathroom, he slams the door shut and locks it before turning to the rinky dink sink in the corner and meeting his own eyes in the mirror. Jimmy thinks he can see a soft white-blue glow hiding behind his irises, sitting just under the surface, pulsing irritably. Slightly shaky hands grip the sides of the sink before him.

When he doesn't feel the familiar pull at his mind, sucking him back in to the furthest recesses of his brain, he continues with a heavy sigh. "Look, I can't keep going on like this with your constant trips down memory lane flooding my mind. I get it. I know the date is closing in on us and I know how you feel. Trust me, the feeling is mutual. I'm being overrun here, though." Jimmy shrugs off the leather jacket, his body is warming up from the stress. He's left in nothing but a dark, heather grey Henley covering his torso with the jacket now draped over one arm.

Jimmy's hair is mussed, his eyes are rimmed red around the edge, and his five o'clock shadow is more of an actual beard. The bags under his eyes are just the frosting on the cake. He's tired of driving, he's tired of thoughts, he is just plain tired. 

"My mind can barely take all the fragmented pieces of memory I have of those times and all the memories before and after and keep them straight. Its too much, we've been at it for too long. I'm exhausted, Cas. So please, just do what you need to do, clear your head and then we can go home. I could really use the rest anyways." Jimmy runs a hand over his scruffy jawline and takes in his reflection one more time before he can finally feel it. The tug at his mind. "You know I'm right." He smirks just a tiny little bit then closes his eyes as it tugs harder, slipping away from his own skin, allowing the other to fill him. 

Jimmy is still aware of course, he can see everything his body is doing if he so chooses. He can see in the mirror the way his blue eyes are suddenly overrun by the white-blue glow of energy pouring in to them. Vaguely he can feel the energy, the grace, skittering through his veins like electricity. Back at the bar he could feel the swell of it for a moment, but it wasn't like this feeling. It is consuming him, coating every fiber of his being and he relishes in the sense of calm it brings his tired mind. 

_One more thing._ He thinks in his head. _Clean us up._ Jimmy's face seems to have totally changed in the blink of an eye, more drawn and serious. Eyes more intense and fathomless. It may be his body but this isn't him anymore, this is a whole other being. His lips set themselves in a firm line, but he can see them twitch a little. The barest hints of a smirk lurk in the corners and he knows the other will be okay for a little while. Jimmy just barely catches the extra zing of grace shooting through him before he sinks back in to nothingness. 

***

Exhaustion. That is what he feels in every bone, joint, and fibre of muscle the moment his grace washes through it, coming to the forefront of control. His vessel is worn past the breaking point. 

_One more thing. Clean us up._ The soft request echoes through his mind and he can't help the small smirk that struggles to bubble to the surface under the weight of his melancholy. His ves-his body, as Jimmy demands he it call it, appears like Atlas. It feels as if it carries the weight of the world on its shoulders. The hair is a mess, fingers had been pushing it back during the long drive, running through it repeatedly to create some sort of repetitive calm. The dark scruff decorating the jawline is wild and untamed. Puffy redness around the eyes is the best indicator of a lack of rest recently. Stress. This vessel - he can't help it - is well past the final stages of stress, delving into dangerous territory concerning its physical and mental health. _Wiped._ Jimmy corrects. This body is completely "wiped," but luckily it has him. With the blink of an eye, a fraction of a second of thought, and a quick surge of grace its all been fixed. 

Rolling his shoulders, Castiel gives his vess- _BODY! Its been over fifty years, Castiel. Its yours just as much as it is mine now-_ one more cursory inspection. The unruly hair is now fresh and mostly tamed, the scruff is trimmed back to a close shave, the bags under the eyes gone, and the weight of the world no longer feels quite so heavy. Its as good as its going to get. Turning away from the mirror, he heads back outside.

It is tempting to put the jacket back on and enjoy the weight reminiscent of his old coat, but Castiel refrains. The sun is warm on his skin, at least he gets the sensation it is, it'd be odd to have such a heavy jacket on during this time of day, he rationalizes. Jimmy had been wearing it though so maybe it wasn’t warm enough. Castiel sighs heavily and decides to just leave it off. 

His eyes automatically squint a little when he first emerges in to the light before adjusting, every little minute detail of the world rapidly coming in to laser like focus with the aid of grace now pumping through them. Vivid blue irises take in his surroundings, scoping the little gas station and each of its occupants in rapid succession, analyzing everything before one can even blink. Castiel’s eyes stop when they land on a familiar sight.

Across the parking lot, the gleaming, black beauty they had arrived in waits idle near the pumps. Even from a distance he can see the scars she wears like badges of pride. Though there have been many repairs done over the course of her lifetime and far too many paint jobs to count, he can still see her blemishes shining through. 

There are areas where the paint isn't as richly colored as it used to be, the sun has worn down on it over the years since its last repaint. It’s chipped along the front, debris from years of travel have left tiny white spots of exposed primer all over the hood and fenders. Little dents and dings line her flanks and mar the body lines just enough to ruin the fluidity. Scratches from trees and bushes, road tar and burnt rubber from many rapid departures coat the underside of her side skirts. Up close, one would say she leaves much to be desired, from a distance they’d say she’s good looking, especially under the night sky, but to Castiel, she’s perfect. Just the way she is.

Every blemish on her body tells a story. Her story. Baby’s life written all over her for the world to see. The story of two brothers who saved the world, crisscrossing the country in their home on wheels as fast as she could take them. A family who’s motto, saving people, hunting things, should be the driving force for the current generations of hunters to rouse from their beds in the morning and fight the good fight. A story that, unfortunately, became a myth. A legend passed down to the younger generations in hunter families. Another great epic thrown to the cutting room floor. 

They weren’t even human anymore, his brothers, they were just figments of ones imagination. A warm thought, as sleep takes hold, that somewhere out there, maybe, they’re protecting you. Like God, or Chuck as he liked to be called, but without the divine wrath and inflated sense of self. The brothers were lost to the stories, which had become twisted versions of the truth. The truth that only three people remember in detail, for, apart from them, even those who did know they were real and had been saved by them once upon a time had fuzzy memories at best. It had been fifty years since the last of the Winchesters had walked the Earth. 

There was no grand gathering, no one made aware of their passing. Just a quiet hunter's funeral along the shore of a lake where a mother and an angel had once been given the same treatment. 

It was their spot they had decided. Looking out over the water, underneath the canopy of trees surrounding the small house that had once seen the birth of one of their family members, the death of a new mother and, albeit temporary, of a celestial being, and the first tear in the universe. While the hunter phrase "what gets burned stays dead," hadn't quite rung true for the angel, the pyres built after had truly seen the brothers laid to rest.

The calm water lapping at the edges and fireflies dancing in the trees behind the house that night was in stark contrast to the raging inferno that blazed before the only three in attendance. They were gone. Loneliness had crept through his bones once again as his feet carried him back to her. Back to Baby. To the last piece of his brothers, waiting patiently for her boys to come back to her. 

All of that lay within her imperfections, sitting there in the afternoon light with the day to day bustle of small town life in the background. Baby was in full focus, every spectrum visible to the limited human eye in sharp focus. Except where it wavered suddenly at the bottom of Castiel's field of view. Like a liquid lens had materialized over his eyes. Something ghosts against his cheek, leaving a cold trail in its wake, his hand instinctively moves up to brush it away and comes away with a drop of water. _Not water. A tear._ He's crying.

Castiel, Angel of the Lord, crying over a car. 

_Not just a car. Home._ His mind supplies. _Perfectly human to cry over._ It's not the first time he's experienced it, but his programming tries to reason it away nonetheless, to supply some helpful purpose behind the sentiment. Human emotions he seems to never have gotten used to. They are there, festering inside him and pervading his senses, but they still tend to throw him for a loop once in a while. They-

_"So close no matter how far-"_ Castiel's thumb is swiping the answer button, effectively silencing the ringtone, before his eyes can even see who is calling Jimmy's phone. The cool screen is pressed against the side of his head in a flash.

"Jimmy!" A female voice on the other end shouts, making him wince for just the briefest of moments while his brain throws the voice through a series of internal filters in rapid fire succession before it comes up with the name. _Claire._

Claire Novak. The beautiful daughter of his vessel, once a strong, hard headed force to be reckoned with, there is now age in her voice. A frailty he still isn't used to hearing through Jimmy's ears. 

_"Call me old, one more time! I'll clock you with my cane!"_

An echo of her voice sounds from his memories. Castiel remembers the time when he possessed her in an effort to save not only his brothers, but his own vessel as well. He remembers feeling all that bravery swollen up inside such a young human. Claire never hesitated to give herself up to Castiel, not even for a moment if she could save her Dad. Castiel was so content with remaining in Claire's vessel, surrounded by the purity of her soul. Now her voice is so laced with age, he can practically feel it through her words. _She's seventy._ He reminds himself. It's been fifty years. _She's human._

"Judging by the constipated pause, I'm guessing this is Castiel." There's amusement in her voice now and she manages to put a small smirk on his face even from afar. 

     "Hello, Claire." 

_Hello, Dean...Sam._ A memory flickers across his vision, a brief flash of seeing his brothers and reciting the same greeting he gives Jimmy's daughter. 

"Nice of you to join the world of the living. How was your vacation in the back of Jimmy's mind?" There's still the amused tone to her voice, but now he detects a brief hint of irritation as well. It's understandable there would be. After the last big showdown he's been all but distant from the world, living within his vessel's mind majority of the time. _I've become a story._ He thinks.

"I'm sorry." Is all he manages to push out from between his lips and he can practically see her roll her eyes as she huffs in to the phone. He gets the idea that she's sitting on her porch in her rocking chair with a rifle draped across her lap and a flurry of Hunter activity in the background. With slight focus on his hearing, his mind verifies this. She must be alone though, or far enough from the others for her to use his name aloud. It's an unspoken agreement between them that his continued existence remain a secret. 

"Yeah, yeah old man. Could've used you quite a few times, but I guess Jimmy...Dad...did say you lent him your grace in a few of those fights." He hums a response and then there's a watery cough in the phone from her end, a thick gargle in her throat and another heavy sigh. "Anyways. Where are you guys at?" 

"A few miles outside of Indianapolis. We have stopped to-" Castiel thinks on his words, describing the shared existence he has with Jimmy, and how the whole living in the other's mind -even though it's technically a shared mind- thing works, is not something he thinks he will ever be able to fully put in words "-let Jimmy rest." 

"Getting on each other's nerves, huh?" Leave it to Claire to sum it up. Castiel only huffs once again. "Are you guys heading back this way? We have a particularly nasty hunt ahead of us. I'm sending out all the boys." Now Castiel can really hear the commotion in the background, realizing she's moving through the compound. The racking of guns, tell tale thunk of presses, the sound of a sandy substance, salt, being poured, and water running in to metal tins. The last one peaks his interest. _Holy water? No, why would they require holy water._ "Was wonderin' if you would go with them? Make sure none of these idiots get themselves killed?" There's an unmistakable fondness in her voice.

That compound packed full of hunters, nestled in the woods outside Lebanon, is her family. Many of the men and women there she's grown old alongside in the days since Sam and Dean. One of them she even had a relationship with long enough to have had a son, Johnathan James Novak, who is now forty and getting ready to have a second son himself in a few months time. There's a swell of pride building in Castiel that doesn't rightly belong to him.

That's Jimmy's family, not his. Jimmy is the one deserving of that prideful feeling, Castiel is just along for the ride. That and he has nowhere else he can be. 

"CAS!" The frail voice barely manages to make itself louder in his ear, but it's enough to snap his mind back to it. "I'm going to whack you something good if you keep spacing out on me old man."Castiel actually manages a snort of laughter at that. He was, after all, very spacey lately. Well, more so than usual. 

"My apologies, Claire. We will be heading that way shortly. I just need to...'blow off some steam'." He mentally adds the air quotes for his own inside joke. He's long since learned the various slang phrases the humans use and keeps well up to date on them through Jimmy when the man converses with his great grandchildren. Not that they're privy to that knowledge. To them, he's Uncle Jimmy. An unrelated man who just so happens to have known Grandma Claire for a long time. 

"Great, thanks Castiel. Just don't go blowin' up some abandoned building again. Was pretty hard coverin' that up from the boys. 'Warehouse decimated in mystery explosion!'" She mocks the headline from the news coverage of the last time he'd had to relieve the pressure on his mind. Another choking cough rasps out through the phone. Castiel’s face draws back in to a tight line listening to it. There's the sound of water still too, slipping in to tin. 

_Maybe they're just pouring into canteens?_ Jimmy chimes in, startling Castiel.

"Why would they need canteens? We do not live in a time short on water supplies." Castiel speaks aloud, forgetting for a moment that Claire is still on the other line.

"What was that?" Her voice filters in to his ear.

_Just a thought, Cas. After all, they don't need holy water for anything. The demons are gone. We took care of that._

"I'm going to whack you with my cane, old man. That settles it!" Claire grumbles from the other end. He hasn't heard her though, not really. Synapses in his mind are racing from neuron to neuron, filtering through every possibility they come across in his memories.

“I’ll be more discreet.” Castiel responds to her initial statement, but doesn’t recall his hand clenching in to a tight fist. His nails are drawing thin red rivulets of blood from his palms, dripping down on to the pavement below. Releasing the tension in his fingers, his grace zings to repair the damage.

“Yeah you do that old man. Just...don’t take too long. You know how antsy they get when there’s a hunt on their minds. I won’t be able to hold them back too long.” Claire sighs heavily and the wave of exhaustion rolling through her body is practically tangible on his end. 

"I will be there before they grow restless." Even though his mind is still working hard on the possible necessary usage of holy water in the present day, his feet begin to move forward, pulling him towards Baby at a brisk pace without even a moment of hesitation to admire her one last time, as her previous owner would have. Maybe the extra volume to the creaking of her door is her retaliation. Her way of demanding respect by threatening loss of proper function. _The doors need to be greased and realigned._ Angel wiring supplies from its vast knowledge acquired from _Auto Repair for Dummies._

Sinking down in to the worn, leather covered cushion, which has a separation forming at the seams again, Castiel still holds the phone to his ear. Claire's breathing is still present on the other end, she hasn't hung up yet which means there is something being thought over in her mind.

"Claire." His voice booms within the silence of the car. There is shifting on the other end and the busy sounds in the background start to fade away. 

"Cas, they're...th-," cutting herself off, he can hear the deep, steadying breath Claire takes before sighing. "Just get here as soon as you can." Another pause, but still no click of a dead line. "Be careful." _Click._ The phone slides away from his ear and he brings his hand down to his lap, clutching it tightly. The concern in her voice sends a shiver through his grace. Not his vessel, his own being. A warning. Why would he need to be careful? 

After all, he destroyed Hell.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for clarification, any character tagged will be in the story soon...just...need to get there lol 
> 
> Feedback appreciated! Please let me know if you see typos too cause I started going cross eyed staring at this thing...

Twenty minutes away from the gas station, Castiel is letting Baby set the pace down the highway, occasionally giving her a little more throttle to stretch her legs. She gains speed on the downwards slopes every so often just to relax back to a more regular gait. 

_Just let her decide._ Dean’s voice from long ago echoes through his mind. The one and only time Castiel had been allowed to slip behind the wheel of the powerful machine during the green eyed Hunter’s lifetime. Just months before he passed. Maybe he knew. Maybe he knew then that their time was coming to a close. That his beloved Baby would need someone to care for her when they were gone and who better than the closest thing he had to a brother outside of Sam. Dean had practically shoved the angel in to the seat whilst muttering grudgingly under his breath. There was never a given reason for the driving lesson, which Castiel thought was entirely unnecessary since he knew how to drive. 

_Yeah, tell me again how much horsepower did the Pimpmobile have? This isn’t a car Cas, it’s Baby. She’s special._ Perhaps that had been his goodbye. Castiel sighs heavily, a loud disturbance amongst the standard hum of the car. 

The angel's mind wanders through the past as his eyes remain ever locked on the road. The greenery passing by in a constant blur on either side of the highway is accompanied by the occasional whoosh of a car passing in the opposite direction. The once confining space of the car is a now comforting embrace, it lulls him in to a sense of security, making it easy for Castiel to suddenly find himself traipsing down memory lane.

He remembers how strange and confining a vessel had once felt against his wavelength for the very first time. It prickled like an itch all across his grace. Of course then he'd never experienced an "itch" to begin with, so the only word available to his knowledge had been "annoyance." Taking a vessel had been an annoyance to him. 

All of its limitations, all of its flaws. Castiel's grace sought to fix them all. Humans were not meant to be pristine though. The vessel got bumped, scraped, and bruised every which way and Castiel's irritation with it just grew and grew as he kept fixing and fixing, until he ditched out of it completely in search of a general reprieve.

Man, woman, child, Castiel has been them all. The white hot grace of his being crammed itself again and again in to different vessel's over time as he stood watch over Earth, until finally he was recalled to Heaven. The angel had never been so delighted in his life at that point. The euphoria of finally being free, of letting his grace spread itself out across Heaven, alongside his brothers and sisters, had never been so welcomed. Castiel had actually prayed himself for the first time then. Begging in Enochian, he prayed he'd never have to take another vessel. 

Of course, that prayer would never be heard. Castiel took many more vessels over the years. He was a soldier after all, he went where he was told and did what was asked of him without complaint. Until once again Castiel found himself praying, but for a much different cause. In Maine in 1901, standing on the gravel drive of a quaint countryside home, he begged mercy for the soul of a little girl whom his garrison, at the behest of Ishim, was charged with wiping from the Earth. A nephilim, May Sunder, who he'd come much later to discover was an innocent human child. Castiel, Benjamin, and Mirabel all fell for Ishim's lie that the child was sired by the angel Akobel and born out of the human woman Lily Sunder. _Blasphemy!_ The garrison had cried. 

Much later, after discovering the true parentage of the girl, he'd curse himself for his blindness, for his unwavering faith in the divine purpose he believed he'd possessed. Ignorance was no excuse. A mother lost her child and a little girl her life because of his obscured perception of the truth. Castiel would come to learn, far too late, that not all is what it seems. One more nephilim would die at his hands and yet another would enter his life after that. 

Jack would be an integral change in Castiel's view of not only of the angelic hybrids, but, alongside numerous attempts at taking care of Claire, of being a parent and what that really meant. What it felt like for Lily Sunder to have that ripped from her. Even what it meant for his human brothers to suffer through the loss of not one, but both of their parents. It took the shared responsibility of teaching Jack and setting Claire on the right path for him to realize the full levity of the impact that bond between parent and child had on both sides of the equation.

Then he'd experienced that pain for himself when Jack died. Albeit another temporary situation, in the moment it had been utter devastation. For all three of them. Jack was a son to Dean, to Sam, and to Castiel.

Back then though, all Castiel did was pray May's soul be returned to Heaven, that she be at peace as he watched the light flood from the windows of the house before him. Akobel's vessel lay dead on the porch, eye sockets charred by the destruction of a celestial being. Castiel had actually read his own brother his death sentence before Mirabel rammed her blade through their sibling. He did it with next to no feeling. Yet, wearing the body of a Sarah Elizabeth Price, a noblewoman, he again wished for no more vessels.

For almost another hundred years he was spared the wrongness of possessing a body. One hundred years of blissful peace amongst the Host. Watching over Earth with his brothers and sisters, standing guard like the soldier he was. Then war came. The first seal was about to be broken.

_Our father has a task for you._ Uriel had spoken, his grace coiling around Castiel's, invading his senses. There were images of a man passed between the host. This human broke the first seal. A human soul being twisted by a demon, taking up the blade of Hell's most distinguished torturer, and effectively bringing about the start of the apocalypse. _Father wants you to raise the Righteous Man from Harrow Hell._

Castiel remembers the silence amongst the angels of his garrison, the pregnant pause in the usual hum of their combined grace. _Why him?_ Of course there was no explanation given as to why it had been Castiel. The angel believes that maybe his predisposition for disobedience, most of which he still does not remember thanks to Naomi, was what made him stand out amongst the Host. Maybe their Father had known all along which side Castiel would choose, where his story would lead. Maybe it was just happenstance and their Father had nothing to do with the choice at all. Maybe they had hoped the angel with a crack in his chassis would be cut from the line. Chuck had led him to believe there was purpose behind the decision once, but Castiel still wasn't quite sure. 

Nevertheless, Castiel did not hesitate further, after the awkward silence prevailed just a few moments longer, and flung himself to harrow Hell. His garrison and the remaining armies of Heaven cast themselves downwards just behind him, blasting through the foul beasts of Hades to clear Castiel's path to Dean. 

The seraph saw his fair share of the war regardless of their efforts to get him down to the broken soul belonging to one Dean Winchester, before the first seal was broken. Truly he'd doubted then that they were even fully trying to begin with. Castiel had run his blade, made from his own Grace, through many a demon and hellhound alike. There were other creatures that resided there, on the lower levels of Hell, luckily he had not had to face any of those. 

Then, seemingly in a flash of time, the righteous man was risen. The brothers reunited. Castiel thought his job done, until once more Uriel approached him. 

_Our father asked we watch over them, Castiel. Protectors to filthy, mudmonkeys. Disgusting little things._ Uriel's grace pulsed with disgust. 

_Careful, Uriel._ The other angel's grace flickered briefly with annoyance before the two of them found themselves down Earth.

For the first time in his long existence, Castiel felt a pull on his being. The moment his grace fanned out across a hundred square miles, it touched a light. A fire burning within the chest of one James Novak. A true vessel. Castiel's true vessel. Every angel had one out there, whether it existed already or was yet to be born, but the seraph never believed he'd stumble across his. It was fate that his vessel resided only It was simpler to just possess the closest willing participant and get moving, but he couldn't resist the draw. 

_How could this be?_ He'd thought back then. _How could there be a bloodline specifically suited for my being?_ There it was though, the tug on his grace that signified just that. Castiel couldn't resist circling the family for a few weeks, making the briefest contact with the young, dark haired father, begging he trust him and prove his faith. He recalls asking the man to place his hand in the pot of boiling water, to allow Jimmy to demonstrate his devotion to God and his angels and the resulting protection he would receive. Jimmy had no hesitation and plunged his entire forearm in to the boiling pot. Castiel barely had a second to react, startled by the man's innate trust, be he began pouring his grace in to the man's flesh to protect it from the bubbling liquid. 

Amelia Novak had of course chosen that very moment to come home and, momentarily, derailed Castiel's plans to occupy the vessel in that time. It wasn't until later that evening, after Amelia and young Claire went to bed, that Castiel heard his vessel call out for him. Jimmy stood out in the cold, night air. 

_So, I want to help you. I'm about to lose my family here if you don't tell me how... Please, Castiel, just talk to me. What do you want from me?_

Fascinated by the soul of this man singing out for him personally, beckoning the angel that was tethered to his familial tree, Castiel was tempted to say everything. The seraph wanted anything the man held up to offer. The draw was so powerful to this human being. 

Ever the good, little soldier Heaven trained him to be. Castiel read him the company line. He was chosen by God to serve Heaven, to serve a just cause and in return the young Novak man's family would be spared from evil.

The image of the first time he'd seen himself in a reflection, wearing his vessel, stood out. It was like watching a puppet on strings. A good little soldier indeed, marching along to the beat of Heaven's drum. A vast difference from the way he ended up, from when he liberated himself from the strings of his puppet master, still an angel just lacking the unfettered loyalty and undying need to prove himself to the heavenly host. Focusing that loyalty elsewhere instead. Now, there is nothing left to devote or justify himself to anyways, not anymore.

***

Baby is rumbling down the highway just outside Oakland, Illinois when he feels the first wave of pressurized energy pass through his vessel. Like a jolt of electricity just ignited every nerve ending in his entire being. Castiel momentarily loses sight of the road, his vision is a complete white out for a few harrowing seconds before he regains his sight. 

The jolt of power fades from his veins, but he can feel the next wave building up around his grace, which is pushing tight against his vessel's insides. There's the distinct thought, the same one he always has, that this must be what it would be like if he were a balloon on the verge of popping. 

What's repressed inside of his grace is nothing short of a nuclear warhead residing within a container as frail as rice paper. Unless it is carefully released; skillfully managed every few months by allowing a discharge of energy, it will combust. Castiel's vessel barely manages to come out unscathed each time, but while the energy is exploding outwards, he deftly redirects some of it in to simultaneously healing himself. Even then what he allows to escape is only a fraction of what lays within him, greater than anything the Leviathans had living inside him. After all, it’s Heaven.

Forty years ago, some ten short years after Sam and Dean passed, there was another war building. Hell took up arms, knowing just how frail the stability of Heaven was. The lights were already going out, what with the armies of Heaven decimated down to a mere twelve remaining seraphim, Castiel included. He spent those ten years back in his old home, acting as a battery with the others to try and keep the balance from tipping. It was also a distraction he’ll never admit to needing. 

Regardless of the seraphim’s efforts, it tipped. Heaven was overrun by the foul nature of Hell’s occupants. A mere twelve angels against an army of demons. Once they would have been strong enough to have won even with such a limited number. They still had the full power of Heaven behind them back then. This time they were quite literally the last soldiers still standing. Even then, only Castiel and five others had been soldiers in their long lives. The remaining angels had been the heavenly equivalent of pencil pushers. They lasted longer than Castiel thought they would, held on till the end, till he was the last angel standing. Hell had taken a great hit for their credit, but Castiel wouldn't have stood a chance. 

Heaven's lights flickered in vain, Castiel's grace was yanked on by his former home, almost sucked completely dry in front of thousands of demons until it just went out. The lights turned off for the last time and that's when it happened.

With nowhere else to go, the entirety of Heaven's power derived from the souls that no longer had angels guarding them, the fuel behind the Host, so they in turn could fuel Heaven, rushed towards the only remaining source of grace left. Castiel. In the midst of being run through with a fallen brother’s blade, up against thousands still, the full brunt of Heaven’s reaming power surged through his vessel and overwhelmed his small little spark of dying grace. 

It was like Purgatory all over again, slamming in to him like a wave and lighting every part of his vessel and own celestial wavelength on fire. It was like being burned alive and reborn all over again. Pain and relief twisted around each other inside him. His grace was overpowered by the sheer amount of energy the souls of Heaven provided, threatened to explode his vessel in to tiny little pieces. Tear at the seams and rip him to pieces. Some part of him fought back, the unconscious part of his mind was conscious enough to redirect some of the incoming energy in to repairing the vessel simultaneously. Somehow, he lived. 

As Castiel opened his vessel's eyes for the first time after what seemed like forever, they saw what had become of his old home. It was a wasteland. The memories each soul had lived in were obliterated. He sought out his favorite one, the eternal Tuesday afternoon of an autistic man who drowned in a bathtub. Gone. Jimmy and Amelia’s lovely home. Non existent. Bobby’s living room. Dissipated. Sam and Dean’s highway road- there was nothing left of the great kingdom in the sky. Nothing left for the good souls to find their way home to once they’d sloughed off their mortal coils. Just...nothing. 

Just Castiel. 

The last piece, the last reminder that there had been a Heaven. His Father was long gone, not even a blip on the radar since he’d left with Amara. There was no one left, but the lone soldier of God. Just one seraph who had long forsaken his home in favor of a new one, with new family, on Earth. There was no Heavenly Host. Just a former loyalty to a place now wiped from the map. 

He’d tried. The angel had given his best. Castiel sought to relieve himself of some of the weight he now felt on his shoulders. The seraph with a "crack in his chassis" had given his everything to try and save a place and a family he didn’t truly want to be a part of anymore. Now...now their energy, just the tether that bound them all together, was all that was left and it all resided within him. An atom bomb waiting to go off. 

Would his vessel hold? It'd proven enough for Lucifer, but for all of Heaven? If it could, then for how long? How much time did the world have before Castiel couldn’t contain this anymore? All those souls...gone, just light...just converted energy now. All those human’s bright, beautiful beings diminished down in to Castiel’s personal battery. The weight resettled on his shoulders. How much longer did he even want to fight?

Castiel came to realize that one soul had survived the fall of Heaven. Jimmy. Somehow his soul had been strong enough to cling on to its former shell. The soul of the once vibrant, young father was with him again, but he didn’t want to be. 

When Castiel first discovered that he was no longer alone in his occupation of his body, that he was returned at least one familiar light, he was relieved. For a brief moment he was some semblance of happy again. Then other shoe dropped. Jimmy fought and begged and pleaded for Castiel to make him just another snuffed out spirit inside his being, to extinguish his soul. He screamed for Castiel to relieve him of the pain of losing his wife all over again. There was nothing the angel could do for him. He couldn’t risk tipping the deadly balance inside him by adding another energy source to the mix. Jimmy was trapped once again. A vessel for Castiel. A prisoner. 

_Cas._ Jimmy stirs in the back of their shared mind. A gentle nudge at the back of the brain to return Castiel to the present. They coexist in their weird, shared ownership of one body but Jimmy is the one who keeps them on track. The inhabited human knows when it's time to pull the forlorn angel out of his thoughts and it's usually always during the same memories. 

Jimmy says nothing further, just resettles in place behind their eyes, a comforting hum ever present. Castiel rolls his shoulders and repositions his body where it's slumped a bit, righting himself behind the wheel. 

Just a few moments down the road, just as he’s starting to sink into thought once again, his entire body starts to tense. A sensation he's become all too familiar with. 

His grace, no, the current of Heaven’s power is coiling up like a snake preparing to strike, ready to sink it’s fangs in to the surrounding world and decimate everything in its path. Castiel’s eyes start to burn, he can feel the sensation of them glowing brightly stinging as they practically combust. Castiel's power slithers through his vessel on its own accord, starting to rapidly heal them in tandem. Burning and healing, burning and healing, again and again in microseconds. His vessel's temperature is skyrocketing, encouraging him to redirect his grace through his veins, eyeballs be damned if there's nothing to contain the bomb inside him. 

Castiel's veins alight with grace as it washes through the burning nerves. It's the equivalent taking a fire extinguisher to a wildfire. Except for this extinguisher is amped up by the remnants of Heaven. Which means it works, temporarily, and slowly the flare up reduces to warm embers for the time being.

Mentally, he reminds himself to not be in Baby the next time he's getting close to needing energy. She would never forgive him if he reduced her worn interior to ashes. He'd never forgive himself. Dean would probably make it a personal goal of his to rise from the grave, again, and be the first man to smite an angel with a glare. Neither of his human brothers would be pleased. Sam loves her just as much as his brother, not that he ever admitted.

Castiel sighs heavily, taking a few cursory glances out each window to get his bearings. Once he's sure the wave of pressure that was building is quelled for now, he spreads his being out around his vessel. A feather light wave of grace leaches out through his skin and through the confines of the Impala, reaching outwards through the gaps in her weatherstripping. He can feel the world around him, the road passing by underneath the steel beauty's tires, the whistle of the wind flowing around her. Castiel's grace pushes outwards through the trees, every touch of a leaf or brush of a blade of grass as it passes through is relayed back to his mind, until he senses a spot that is a safe enough distance away from civilization. Coming back to himself, he checks the next road sign and quickly makes his way across three lanes, heading down the 206 off ramp from I74 and turning on to Newtown Road. 

A few right hand turns to back track around, he finds himself turning off County Road 1020 East on to Sportsman Lake Road, following it back as deep as it can get. Instinctively he knows he's in the Middle Fork Woods Nature Preserve now, if the signs hadn't already told him that of course. Luckily it seems to be an off day and each of the small "parking lots," more like small pull over areas, are vacant. Once he reaches the end, he turns around in the last lot so Baby faces back out at the main drive before he pulls off to the side and kills her engine. Making sure she’s pointed back towards and escape route is a habit he’s created all on his own. As he steps out of the vehicle he hears the motor making its standard small, clinking noises as she begins to cool. 

The hottest parts of the engine cool more rapidly, the metal starts shrinking minutely as it does, thus creating the small sounds as it starts its process of equalizing with the air temperature. His internal wiring ever storing and spewing stored information, admittedly even some learned through Google after frantic researching. The sounds had terrified him the first time he'd driven Baby alone. Dean would have killed him if he'd already messed her up, he'd thought. Even though the sounds were ever present each and every time he rode with the brothers, it was information his mind, despite being hardwired for information storage, apparently deemed too unnecessary to take notice. Luckily for him, all was well. Just another comforting quirk of the gloss black, beauty.

Walking around to the backside of the Impala, Castiel once more feathers his grace out around him, closing his eyes this time and spreading himself as thin as he can risk; without disrupting the shield it maintains against the bomb living inside him. The tall trees surrounding the lot and framing the path deeper in to the woods, loom over him like giants. They’re old, his grace can feel their age, some of them have been here longer than the town. Gravel beneath his feet crunches as he turns in a slow circle, mapping out the area around him. The clearing is nearby. About two miles.

One quick thought and he could be there or take twenty minutes to walk. Restoration to full power wasn't the only thing to come of Heaven's power inhabiting his vessel. If he wants to, with just a small pull on his grace he can fly again. Castiel could be in that clearing already. He can feel the grace inside him shift, feel the pressurized energy around his back as his wings unfurl on instinct alone, as they've always done. Broken or not, every time he moves to leave they open in response, even when Jimmy is in control. It's a knee-jerk reaction he's found impossible to rid himself of. 

Castiel can see them, his wings, extensions of his grace spread out around him, the way they pulsate and flex, exuding power. If Jimmy were in control, they'd still be there, like shadows in his peripheral vision. They exist on another plane entirely, a spectrum inaccessible to anyone but Heaven’s residents. Now, only accessible to one. Every time they unfold now, he's reminded of the times when he felt worthy of having them. A time long since passed. 

_Angels are warriors of God. I'm a soldier._

Castiel's mangled wings were restored when he took the souls of Heaven within him. Fractured “feathers,” comprised entirely of grace, disintegrated and left pristine ones in their stead. It was nothing short of a miracle. Yet he doesn't fly. He won't allow himself to relish in that feeling again. Won't take the risk of falling back in to old habits, not when he's come this far. 

_I'm no angel._

The memory of a particular night spent with a Reaper, who not hours later, would run his own blade through his, at the time, very human chest floats through his mind as he turns on his heels. 

_I thought I was more important, more effective than I am, that I could... fix everything._

As he'd told the Winchesters later that night, his time with April had been educational. Naivety in regards to sexual pleasures hadn't been all he'd been referring to. It had been one of the first true moments of clarity where he'd come to realize that he'd clearly overestimated his own importance. Castiel was not an angel anymore, grace or not. 

What is he now, truly? All these years, decades long past, and he's still not quite sure what this feeling in his chest is. His grace feels like his grace, his vessel his vessel, but there’s just something not falling in place. His mind is shared once again with Jimmy but even that is a familiar comfort. Of course there's the ticking time bomb too, but this other feeling gnaws at him, it’s like he's not...right. 

Purgatory comes to mind. In that dark, dank endless forest of monsters, Castiel had then felt wrong too. He recalls saying something along the lines of 'I'm perfectly sane, but then, ninety four percent of psychotics think they're perfectly sane, so I guess we have to ask ourselves, what is sane?' He'd gone beyond what angels were designed to do. In that he was always going to be alone. 

Angels were meant to stay on the outlier, to watch the world and follow orders from higher up like the good little soldiers they were. It's what Castiel himself had done for millenia. Then the end of days came down upon them and two brothers turned the tables, disrupted the stability of Heaven and Hell alike. Made a seraph re-think his loyalty to Heaven itself. Question orders, have doubts. Rebel. 

Though titles like seraph and angel of the lord would always follow him like a personal ball and chain and he would always describe himself as such, it didn't feel right. Adding the use of his wings felt fraudulent, like slipping on a false identity. A regression to a state to which he could never go back. So Castiel walks. 

Scraping his boots through the gravel, the seraph heads in to the tree line. Deviating from the path, Castiel follows the leader of grace feathered out ahead of him, trudging through the woods and allowing himself to revel in the satisfying crunch of dead leaves beneath his boots. 

When Castiel feels his vessel's knees start to give out, he barely has time to move to grab the nearest tree for support before his vision whites out again. The energy is tangible in the air, the tree trunk he's gripping actually groans under the pressure of his being. Quickly, he sucks his grace back in to himself, relinquishing its steady exploration of the area to fortify the walls against the explosion threatening to break free. It takes a few harrowing seconds longer than he'd like to rein it back in.

The moment light processes through the cornea and pupil and focuses on the retina of each eye properly and his legs don't feel so much like jello, he starts moving. After ten minutes another ping of energy runs through him, the pressure is getting stronger, building up for another onslaught against the woven threads of grace holding it all together. Tentatively he lets a small amount of grace out to search the area once again. Castiel knows he's found the right spot out in the trees when his power feathers out around it and there's not a single soul to touch. No deer, rabbits, squirrels, or even birds, almost as if they knew what’s coming and fled for their lives. The only hum of living energy in the glade comes from the grass spread out across it. Castiel briefly feels a sense of loss for the grass’ simple existence about to be snuffed out. 

Tendrils of his grace are washing over every plant, shrub, and rock within a ten mile radius double and triple checking what he already knows. It should be enough space for the small wave of power he’s about to release. Emphasis on should be. As he steps in to the clearing, he finally sees the space with his own eyes. 

It’s a beautiful field, the trees lining the edges of it stand tall and proud. The opening in the woods isn’t as large as he expected it to be, but regardless it will take most of the damage and hopefully the quiet, green leafed giants will remain standing, albeit with a bit of scorching. The grass itself is dotted with little white flowers, spread out in large patches here and there. Its a shame. He does not have anymore time to appreciate it before it’s wiped clean. 

The pressure is creeping through the veins of his vessel, starting to overwhelm his grace as it pushes more and more against the tentative barrier of energy. Bringing his hands out in front of him, he can see as the bones and veins are slowly illuminated by the swirl of energy, a soft glow starting to spread out around his body. The clock has run out. 

"Jimmy." He speaks aloud as his eyes start to burn, after all there is no one out here to shoot him questioning glances for talking to himself. 

_Castiel._ Jimmy responds almost sluggishly. The angel metaphorically throws a noose around the soul inside him and yanks him closer to the surface. The tiredness lingering in the man's presence would usually be enough to have Castiel sending him back to lay his weary head to rest and let Castiel keep the reins for just a while longer. Now's not the time though. The area around the seraph is starting to tint a soft gold from the light emanating from his grace.

"Steady yourself." The teeth of his vessel are starting to grind together as the first tendrils of pain start to flood through the body. The strain on the barrier is too much, if Castiel doesn't let it down first, take control, it'll destroy them. Nonetheless, in true fashion, he's holding out as long as he can. Jimmy will feel everything just as the angel possessing him does. Castiel rushes forwards across the field as the barrier shows the first signs of tearing. A high pitched whine is starting to ring in his vessel's ears, his own true voice already screaming out in pain, and just as he hits the center of the clearing, he releases it.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are appreciated!


End file.
